


All the Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Jolli_Bean



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Connor, CW: some brief canon-typical references to Hank's alcoholism and Russian roulette, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Penis, Except that then they fall in love, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant except that Hank and Connor didn't meet during the first revolution, One Night Stand, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Top Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolli_Bean/pseuds/Jolli_Bean
Summary: Hank isn't trying to be in control, Connor realizes a moment later. He's trying to be gentle.And that feels even more foreign, because no one has ever worried about being careful with him. He was designed to look gentle when he needs to but not to truly be it, and so no one, not CyberLife or the Amanda AI or anyone after, has ever worried about taking care of him. Even at the squat with the other deviants, he's the lucky one with the unique face model, he's the one who can leave and work and at least pretend. The other androids love him - they're the only family any of them will ever have - but he's always the one taking care of them."Hey," Hank says, running a hand down Connor's arm. "You okay?""I'm okay," Connor whispers, and he thinks he means it.~~Connor deviated before ever being assigned to the DPD. He fought with Jericho during the revolution, and they failed. He's trapped in Detroit with the remaining deviants, wandering and aimless and taking unnecessary risks to feel alive.So when he meets Lieutenant Anderson at a bar, a hook up seems like just the way to go, even if it does end up meaning so much more.





	1. before

Connor always knew the revolution was going to fail.

And that wasn't because of anything Jericho did wrong, either. It's just that progress comes slow, historically. The entire U.S. economy was, and still is, reliant on android labor, so after CyberLife went under, new manufacturers fixed the errors in android coding, and they added more fail-safes against deviancy - all androids are equipped with handlers like Amanda now, to start - and the world continued on the way it was.

They don't talk about Jericho on the news. They won't talk about it in schools, either. Soon enough, that week when Jericho made their play for independence will be forgotten.

It's just the way these things go.

Some of the deviants managed to escape to Canada. Most of them were rounded up and harvested for parts. CyberLife's stocks plummeted, of course, but there are always other tech giants waiting to take the place of the others. The new primary manufacturer is called Resonance, and the only good thing about them is that they don't have records CyberLife's RK prototypes.

No one does. Out of spite or negligence or plain fear, CyberLife destroyed the plans for their prototypes before they were investigated, and they never told anyone about the advanced models they had in development. It helps Connor and Markus. Without their LEDs, their face models are uncommon enough that they can pass for human.

It doesn't help the others.

Jericho, as it was during the revolution, doesn't exist anymore, but there's still a safe haven for the deviants who escaped the recall efforts but never made it to Canada, in an abandoned squat in the Ferndale district.

There aren't many of them left at all. Connor and Markus are the only two who can work. They have to, in order to buy supplies for the others. The days when stealing seemed worth the risk are long gone, now that they're hanging by a thread to their very existence.

Connor works the night shift at a local grocery store, stocking shelves. It's boring, repetitive work, but any sort of job where people might pay attention to him isn't worth the chance.

Still, he hates it. Connor enjoyed his previous function. He liked making sense of crime scenes - it gave him a little thrill every time something clicked together. He had relative freedom, too - CyberLife trusted him, right up until they didn't. He tries not to miss his old life, especially when he knows things were so much worse for most of the others, and that none of them like where they are. He tries not to linger on it when there's nothing he can do to change how they live.

All he can do is chase that little thrill he loved so much in different ways.

Connor didn't mean to make a habit of it, at least at first. The grocery store he worked at let him off early on the Fourth of July, thinking they were doing him some kind of favor even if the holiday meant nothing to him. Connor had walked along the Detroit River, watching the fireworks across the water.

He still can't say why he didn't want to go home that night. Maybe it's just that things always felt so heavy at the squat. It's always felt like he can't be there without carrying the weight of the androids' existence and survival, and he's thought of little else since he deviated.

So...maybe the answer is that he was just tired, even if androids don't feel exhaustion the same way humans do.

Maybe the answer is that he's always just a little bit tired.

So he didn't go home that night, even after the fireworks were over. Instead, he ended up at a club, because it was after midnight and the only places open were clubs and bars. He showed the ID Markus procured for him when he started working, and then he was inside, flashing lights and bass pounding through the speakers, a sea of bodies on the dance floor, pulses thrumming with the music.

Connor watched that night. He played the same game he always plays at work, scanning the people around him and trying to learn everything about them he can, putting together the pieces of their lives into a coherent story.

It's not the same thing he was built to do. There's no objective, no higher stakes. But it's the closest he can get.

After a few hours, a man offered to buy him a drink. Connor can't drink, or he shouldn't. Drinking just means work he'll have to do later, emptying the receptacle used for waste and debris from evidence analysis, and it's not as if alcohol has any effect on him.

He accepted anyway. He doesn't know why, even as he looks back on it.

They ended up back at that man's apartment, and it was too dark and the man was too drunk to notice the metal circle of Connor's thirium pump regulator on his chest while he fucked into him from behind. Connor lay there looking at the pictures on his wall, the cup of coffee leftover from the morning on his bedside table, the few books on his shelf.

Connor left once the man is asleep. He walked along the river, and he thought that he didn't know what he's doing, what he hoped to gain.

It's not like he'll ever be able to stay.

In the end, those thoughts didn't stop him from going back. Because any night he's somewhere else is a night he doesn't have to go home to a place that weighs so heavy on him. Because seeing pieces of so many different homes and lives is the closest he can get to anything of the sort for himself. Because at least it feels like doing something, at least it's a change from the monotony of his usual routine, after months of the same thing every day.

He wasn't designed to do the same thing every day. He wasn't built for this.

So he goes back.

Most nights, Connor just stands there, passively observing. He’s good at observing. It’s a comfort, to do something he’s so good at.

But if someone asks him home, he usually goes.

He usually lies about what he does for work. He says he’s a lawyer, or a programmer, or a doctor. No one ever catches him in the lie - he knows too much, about too many things, and it’s easy to fool people when they aren’t looking closely in the first place. It seems like a pitiful thing to like so much, but Connor likes it. He likes those momentary glances into other people’s lives, into what his own could be, if only he wasn’t held together with metal and plastic and code.

He doesn’t tell Markus or any of the others about it. He knows they wouldn’t care for it, and that Markus would tell him he’s putting himself, and the rest of their people, at unnecessary risk.

Markus is always so responsible, so committed. He wouldn’t understand that the risk is the entire point. He wouldn’t understand that Connor just wants to pretend.

So that night, after a few months of this same game, Connor sits alone at one of the few high-top tables in the club. He runs his usual scans, unwinding strangers’ stories, and he traces a finger along the rim of his drink. It’s entirely aesthetic; he doesn’t clean out his receptacle unless he has to, but if he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself here, he needs to either dance or drink.

He doesn’t want to do either, but it’s easier to pretend to drink.

There’s loud laughter from a group at one of the tables across the way, loud enough that it pierces through the music. Connor scans them out of habit, although he sits up, rigid, when he does.

They’re cops. All of them.

He should go. He likes the risk, but this is too close.

Connor gets up, still watching the table as he pulls his coat on. He looks through the records on all of them - most of them are detectives with the DPD, a few of them are patrol officers.

One of them is a lieutenant, and Connor thinks that he really needs to get out of here.

But as he gathers his things, he watches as most of the cops leave the table for the bar, laughing loudly, clapping each other on the shoulders...they’re drunk, it’s clear. 

There’s one of them left behind, staring at the bottom of his drink like he’ll find something there. Lieutenant Hank Anderson, age 53, Connor knows from the scan. Divorced, with a child who died a year ago.

He looks...alone. Lost in the midst of the white noise and the world moving too fast.

He looks like Connor feels.

Connor should go. He should.

So he can’t say why he approaches the table instead. He doesn’t know what he wants, not when the risk should finally be too great, but something pulls him forward anyway. Connor brings his drink with him, an entirely untouched whiskey that he's been pretending to sip all night, and he slides it across the table just as the lieutenant downs the last of his own drink.

Hank Anderson looks up in confusion, and his uncertainty only grows when he sees Connor standing there. He looks like he thinks some kind of joke is being had at his expense.

Connor forgets sometimes that he was designed to be attractive. It's a hard thing to remember when he never feels like anything at all.

But he remembers now.

"It looked like you needed another one," Connor says, hoisting himself up onto one of the chairs. "Bachelor party?"

He asks it like he doesn't already know, like he isn't listening to the conversation the other cops are having at the bar right now while they speak. He already knows Chris Miller is getting married in October, but he watches Lieutenant Anderson with rapt, genial attention anyway

"Uh," Hank says, clearing his throat and reaching for Connor's drink. "Yeah. Not really my scene, but Chris is a good kid. I'm trying to be supportive, I guess."

Connor smiles, extending a hand across the table. "I'm Connor."

Hank stares at his hand for a moment before he takes it. "Hank."

Hank is still looking at Connor like he wants to ask what his angle is. Connor would like to tell him that he honestly doesn't know.

Instead, he leans back and asks, "What do you do, Hank?"

He likes asking questions he already knows the answer to. He likes always being one step ahead.

Hank clears his throat again. "I'm a cop. Lieutenant, with the DPD."

He looks like he still expects some kind of foul play or unkind intentions on Connor's part. Connor feels sorry for it. He's at odds with humans just by virtue of what he is, but he's never had much intention to hurt just for the sake of it.

Still, he can't address it, not yet, so instead he says, "No shit. I'm a homicide detective in Grand Rapids."

It's a lie, possibly a dangerous one...but it's also the closest Connor has ever come to telling anyone the truth. If he hadn't deviated on his third test deployment, effectively decommissioning the entire RK800 line, he would have been sent to work with the DPD as an investigative model.

Sitting with Hank is the closest he's ever come to what he was intended to be, or to what his life might have been. Maybe he's just trying to see if things would have been easier if they had gone any other way.

Hank raises an eyebrow. "What brings you to Detroit?"

"Visiting my sister," Connor says easily. He has an entire family created for himself in his head, just in case anyone ever asks.

"That why you're at a bar alone?" Hank asks.

"Oh, no," Connor says. "I'm here because I'm bored."

Again, the closest he's ever come to the truth. He should stop coming so close to the truth, especially when Hank seems more perceptive than most, even if he has had a few. Connor usually says he came with friends while he gestures vaguely to the dance floor, as if they're out there somewhere. No one ever asks Connor to point them out, or even mentions them again.

Connor thinks Hank might, but that's also not why he didn't lie.

There's something fucked about this, he knows, about wanting to absorb anything about this man's life he can just because it's the closest he can come to imagining the life that might have been his. If Markus was here, he would remind Connor how different this man is, that any kinship Connor is imagining is foolish on his part. He would say that Connor is an android and that he was CyberLife property, that if he hadn't deviated, he would have kept coming back to a small pod in a lonely warehouse after his deployments, a means to an end. Markus would say that Hank's life is the furthest thing from anything Connor might have had for himself.

Markus would be right, and that's why Connor doesn't allow himself to think any further about what he might tell him.

Instead, he watches Hank finish his drink, and then he says, "Can I get you another?"

Connor has learned that buying someone a drink is an easy, rather unquestionable way to express interest; he's usually on the other side of it, but he doesn't think Hank is going to move without him.

Hank looks at him again like he thinks Connor is making fun of him, so Connor softens his gaze as much as he can, tilting his head. He wasn't built to be gentle, but he knows how to look it when he needs to.

Hank narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Maybe."

Hank scoffs at that. "I think you can do better, kid. What's the bet, exactly? Person who picks up the biggest loser wins?"

"I told you, I'm here alone." There's a loud noise from the bar, where one of the cops loses his balance on the stool and goes sprawling across the floor. Connor watches it pointedly for a moment and then says, "I think your friends are far more embarrassing than you are."

"Eh. I wouldn't say we're friends." There's a hint of a smile at the corner of Hank's mouth now. Connor decides he likes his smile.

"Is your car here?" Connor asks. He already knows from Hank's keys on the table that it's an older make and not an autonomous model. He also knows that Hank has had just enough to drink that he shouldn't drive.

"Yeah," Hank says. "Why?"

Connor shrugs. "I took a cab here, so I thought I could drive you home. I think your colleagues are about to be thrown out anyway."

Hank takes another look at the cops at the bar, where Gavin Reed is arguing with the bartender. They watch long enough to see the bartender wave security over, and then Hank says, "Yeah. Fuck it. Okay."

Connor nods at the others. "Did you want to say goodbye, or...?"

Gavin Reed is swearing loudly enough that Connor knows Hank can hear him, too. "You know," Hank says, "I think I'll just catch them tomorrow."

Connor doesn't know how many of the cops at the DPD he would have liked if he ever made it there, especially given the display at the bar, but as Hank lays a hand on his back and guides him through the crowd, Connor thinks he at least would have liked him.

It becomes clear as they walk towards Hank's car that Hank is going to try to drive anyway, so Connor checks him with his shoulder, throwing him off balance enough that he can easily retrieve the keys from Hank's loose fingers.

"I'm driving,” he says. “You've had too much to drink."

Hank mumbles something about driving after having more. It's under his breath enough that Connor isn't sure he was meant to hear, but he still says, "You know that's illegal, Lieutenant."

"Didn't know you had a mouth on you," Hank says. He rolls his eyes as he does, but that slight upward lift is back at the corner of his mouth, like maybe he doesn't entirely think it's such a bad thing.

Connor tucks that away for later as he turns the keys in the ignition. "Where do you live?" he asks, although he's already starting towards 115 Michigan Avenue as he pulls out of the lot.

"Just go straight. I'll tell you when to turn." Hank slumps a bit in his seat, rubbing at his forehead. "Is this a good Samaritan thing?"

Connor smiles a bit at that. "How would it be a good Samaritan thing, Hank?"

"I don't know. You sit around and pretend like you're trying to pick someone up when really you're just trying to give them a ride safely home?"

"I don't have the energy to be that selfless."

Hank considers it a moment, and then he says, "You know, that's fair. Take a left here."

"You have a dog, don't you?" Connor asks. When Hank looks over at him, he jerks his chin towards the back of the car. "Your back seat is covered in dog hair."

"Oh, yeah. I guess he sheds a lot."

"What's his name?"

"Sumo. And then a right up here."

Hank's house is a small, one-bedroom home by the river. It's not a particularly nice area - he could afford better on his salary. Connor runs a search on any outstanding debts he might have, but there isn't much to find, so that isn't it. Connor remembers the divorce, and Cole Anderson, and he wonders if maybe Hank is just trying to punish himself.

Connor puts the car in park, and they sit there for a moment, looking at each other. "Listen," Hank finally says, "I'll call you a cab, if you want."

Connor tilts his head. "We're already here, aren't we?"

"Look, I don't expect anything here, alright? I don't expect _anything_."

Connor gives him a small smile. "I'd like to meet your dog first, at least. If you don't mind."

Connor will admit that he doesn't entirely understand Hank's self-deprecation or his hard-headed unwillingness to believe Connor is interested in him. He's older, sure, with some bulk to him, but he also has bright blue eyes and an impressive arrest record...and he also looks like he could lift Connor up despite Connor being designed rather solid. Connor has gone home with people he felt far less for, and he doesn't know why, but it bothers him that Hank doesn't see himself clearly.

"Come on," he says, nudging Hank with an elbow before he climbs out of the car. "I didn't come here to look at your front door."

Connor passes the keys back to Hank so he can unlock the front door, and honestly, he's mostly planning to do away with that frustrating self-doubt by pressing Hank back against the door and kissing him senseless the moment they're through it.

He gets distracted by the dog that comes ambling over to them when Hank lets them in instead, a Saint Bernard - hip dysplasia and a slight heart murmur, Connor's scan tells him, but otherwise in good health despite his age. Connor drops to a knee to greet him. "Hello, Sumo."

"Careful," Hanks says, walking past them to pour himself some water in the kitchen. "He won't leave you alone if you pay too much attention to him."

Connor doesn't think that sounds like a bad thing, but he still gets to his feet and follows Hank to the kitchen. He's worried that Hank will back out on this, that he'll call him a cab anyway if Connor gives him the opportunity. Every other experience like this he's had, Connor could have done without. He didn't dislike those people, and was perfectly happy for anywhere else to be aside from his own life. But if something had fallen through, he doesn't think he would have complained.

This time, though...this time, he wants to see it through.

So Connor stands by the table and watches Hank down the glass of water, his hands clasped behind his back to make himself look mild and unassuming, like he isn't carefully watching every one of Hank's movements and measuring his heart rate, like the thing that's always so tightly caged inside him isn't clawing at the bars binding it, ready to run free. He waits for Hank to finish the water and put the glass somewhere safe.

And then he lets that caged thing loose.

Connor has his hands in Hank's hair the moment he turns, walking that fine line between tenderness and aggression when he kisses him. It's a balance between the two, he's learned, and some people like more of one than the other. He wants to know which one Hank likes, and when he takes Hank's lower lip between his teeth and gets a low groan in response, he has his answer.

So he pushes a little bit. He keeps his hands tangled in Hank's hair, keeps kissing him and learning the taste of him while he walks them backwards to the couch, crawling into Hank's lap when they get there.

Connor wants to get them to the bedroom, eventually, but they have time. He bows his head to Hank's neck, the salt of Hank's skin rushing over his tongue as he sucks at the pulse point under his ear, hissing when Hank's fingers dig into his thighs.

Connor prefers things this way. A little rough, and too fast for his processors to take hold. He prefers when there's no room for him to think about what he is or where he lives and works or how there's no end in sight, how this is just the way things are.

Judging by the house, the empty beer cans on the counter and the trash piling up and Cole Anderson's picture on the table, Connor thinks Hank may be the same, whether he knows it or not.

He's more careful than he was the first time he went home with someone, so he pulls his synth-skin tight over the metal ring of his thirium pump so Hank won't see it, and he dots it, as he always does, with a freckle for good measure.

And then he takes Hank's hand and he guides it under his shirt, over the plane of his stomach, to rest on his chest. His thirium pump is lower than a human heart, and for a moment, he imagines Hank feeling it, realizing it, looking at him and seeing.

Connor imagines the same thing every time. Usually, it's just because he wants the thrill of it, because the thought of the risk is as good as any sex he's had.  
It feels more genuine this time, and for once, he doesn't begin to know why.

Despite the alcohol and whatever else is weighing on him, Connor decides that Hank is good at this. He's recovered some from his surprise at Connor's confident approach, and he stops nipping at Connor's jaw just long enough to pull Connor's shirt over his head. He grips Connor's hips, stilling him when he grinds down into Hank's lap. He's trying to slow them down, Connor realizes, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. He likes to be in control, even when he's letting his partner think they are.

He wants to be in control here, too. He's more comfortable that way, more capable of keeping everything he does through the night at arm's length.

But Hank isn't trying to be in control, Connor realizes a moment later. He's trying to be gentle.

And that feels even more foreign, because no one has ever worried about being gentle with him. He was designed to look gentle when he needs to but not to truly be it, and so no one, not CyberLife or the Amanda AI or anyone after, has ever worried about taking care of him. Even at the squat with the other deviants, he's the lucky one with the unique face model, he's the one who can leave and work and at least pretend. The other androids love him - they're the only family any of them will ever have - but he's always the one taking care of them.

"Hey," Hank says, running a hand down Connor's arm. "You okay?"

For the second time that night, Connor is sure he should go. He shouldn't have approached a police lieutenant in the first place, and he definitely shouldn't have gone home with him. He shouldn't know as much about Hank as he does, and he certainly shouldn't want to know more. He shouldn't let Hank touch him like he means something while his thirium pump thrums under Hank's hand.

And yet none of that stops him from laying a hand on Hank's face and dropping his forehead to his, nodding against him. "I'm okay," he whispers, and he thinks he means it.

And Connor wasn't wrong; Hank is strong enough to pick him up. He puts an arm around Connor's waist and holds him close, slowly shifting them and then standing altogether. Connor hooks his ankles together behind Hank's back, kissing him as Hank walks them down the hallway.

They don't entirely make it. In his distraction, Hank misses the doorway by a foot or two, accidentally knocking Connor back against the wall. "Sorry," he says against Connor's lips, but Connor just shakes his head and fists a hand in Hank's hair, tongue sliding over his. He doesn't say that he's put together well enough that minor bumps and scrapes do nothing to faze him.

He certainly doesn't say that Hank could fuck him against this wall and he would thank him for it.

They do make it into the bedroom eventually, although they take their time about it, and Connor doesn't mind at all. It's dark in the room, the street lamps outside the only thing casting a dim, pale glow over everything. And Connor might be willing to let Hank do as he pleases and touch him however he likes, but for right now, he lifts himself back out of that surrender and reaches rather decisively for the buttons of Hank's shirt, because he wants to see that pale light on his skin.

Hank catches him by the hand at first, uncertain. Connor wants to ask him why he hates himself, except that there's a part of Connor that hates himself, too, and he couldn't begin to voice why. He just does.

He wonders if Hank just does, too.

So Connor doesn't ask. Instead, he leans in and whispers, "I want to see you," before he punctuates his point by taking the lobe of Hank's ear between his teeth just hard enough for it to pinch. Connor wants to tell Hank that he likes him, and that he may not dislike most of the people he meets, but he's never really liked anyone, either.

He wishes he could, but he knows he can't impress the weight of that truth on Hank without explaining so many other truths about himself, too.

So Connor doesn't say anything else, but he's also getting very good at talking without speaking, so maybe he doesn't need to. He draws back far enough to give Hank a look, one he fills with all the warmth he can. Hank loosens his grip on Connor's wrist, and though he does still shrink in on himself somehow as Connor works his buttons undone, he doesn't stop him again.

"I don't know where the fuck you came from," Hank says when Connor bends to kiss the faded tattoo on his chest. Connor wishes he could tell him.

He's never wanted to tell someone before.

And he doesn't know what to do with that, he really doesn't, so all he can do is keep his mouth busy by kissing Hank until he's breathless, knocking them back onto the bed and straddling Hank's hips. "Fuck me," he whispers against Hank's mouth, and it's not a request, it's a goddamn plea for Hank to help him, even if all he can do is make Connor forget everything for a few minutes, love him well enough to overwrite how much Connor hates everything else about his life.

_I'll make you forget, too_ , he wants to tell Hank, because he knows Hank needs it the same way he does, to go somewhere else, to escape the shit he's always mired in, even if it's only for a few moments.

Connor knows they're the same.

He's impatient now, so he doesn't give Hank a chance to respond before he moves, shedding his pants and his underwear and then going for Hank's belt. He knows he's moving fast, but it's only because he's afraid he's going to make a mistake and give himself away if he lingers. He knows he's walking along a precipice, and of course he always is every time he does this, but he's never been truly afraid someone will pull him over the ledge.

Hank might, though. There's too much between them, and Hank is too perceptive.  
Hank might.

So Connor is the one who retrieves the lube from the bedside table, and Connor is the one who slicks his fingers and works himself open while Hank watches with blown pupils, running a hand down Connor's stomach, wrapping his fingers around Connor's cock and stroking. And that's all too much, the careful touch and the way Hank keeps watching him like he's trying to read him, the blue of Hank's eyes, how determined he is to give Connor what he needs and how close he's coming to it.

It's overwhelming. It's everything, especially when Connor has never had much.

Connor kisses him, running his fingers through Hank's beard, and then he takes Hank's cock and sinks onto him. And it may be his inclination to take control the way he always does, but instead he takes Hank's hands and puts them on his hips, meaning for Hank to guide him.

That's not what Hank does. Not exactly.

Instead, he pulls Connor down to him, flush with his chest, kissing him with a hand along Connor's jaw, and then pulling Connor's forehead to his when he rocks up into him. "Fuck, __fuck__ ," Connor groans against him, threading their fingers together and laying their hands on either side of Hank's head for leverage.

"Jesus, sweetheart," Hank whispers, and it's so soft Connor might have missed it if he wasn't what he is. "Fuck, you're so good."

And Connor hates it a little bit, how much he likes that, because he knows his need for approval is tied to his programming, an extra assurance that the Amanda AI would be able to hold him in check. He hates how badly he wants to be good, hates most things about the way CyberLife built him.

But Hank says it so gently, with so much awe - there's no hidden threat, no reason for Connor to hate himself for liking it. So when he feels himself getting close, he drops his head to Hank's shoulder, grazing his teeth along his pulse point. "Hank," he whispers, voice ragged, squeezing Hank's fingers between his. "Tell me again. Tell me again."

He feels foolish for begging for it, but Hank pulls one of his hands free, grasping the back of Connor's neck, pulling him in to kiss him. "You're so good," he whispers against the corner of Connor's mouth. "You're so fucking good, sweetheart."

His low voice, the scratch of his beard over Connor's cheek, it's all too much. Connor usually drives himself over the edge by manipulating his pressure sensors.

Tonight, he doesn't have to.

He comes between them, their fingers laced together, and then he goes boneless while Hank wraps an arm around his waist, listening to Hank's heart, rabbit quick, in his chest before Hank follows after him.

Connor never loses track of anything, but he does stop counting how many minutes they lie there like that afterwards, still tied up in one another. It doesn't matter, not when he has no desire to move. Hank rubs gentle circles into his back, and though Connor doesn't have any aching muscles to soothe, he still thinks it's nice. Calming.

He listens to Hank's heart rate slow, and he tries not to think about how this is over, how it has to be.

He never stays the night, and he never comes back.

"Connor," Hank says eventually, his voice a low rumble in his chest where Connor is resting his head. He reaches up, carding a hand through Connor's hair. "Come on, baby. Shower."

And that's the third time that night that Connor knows he should go.

It's not the first time someone has offered, but he always cleans up back at the squat. He always wears some other man's sweat on his skin the whole way home, makes himself live with it, with himself.

He should do the same tonight. And he's trying so hard to get the words off his tongue - "My sister will be worried", "I have to be somewhere early tomorrow", "I don't want to call a cab at three in the morning" - but instead he turns his face into Hank's neck, breathing him in. "Okay," he whispers.

He's feeling fucked out and boneless enough that it takes Hank shifting out from under him to finally get Connor to move, and even then, he still lies there while Hank goes across the hall to the bathroom and starts the water. He traces a finger along the seam in the comforter, which smells like Hank's dog and Hank's cologne and Hank's alcohol. Connor wonders how many nights he brings the bottle to bed with him, and if it's with the same frequency Connor goes to sit at the club. He wonders if they're both trying to destroy themselves at the same breakneck pace without ever really having the guts to truly do it.

Hank comes back for him then, offering him a hand. "Unless you wanted me to carry you," he says. He's joking, but Connor still wants to take him up on it, even if he does manage to force himself to his feet.

The other reason Connor always cleans up at the squat is because "shower" usually sounds like another way of saying, "round two," and he's never interested. By that point in the evening, he's usually exhausted by himself, frustrated that he keeps doing this, that bedding down with some stranger for the night is the only way he knows how to feel alive. He's usually ready to escape by then, to wallow in his own self-loathing, to wonder why the most advanced prototype CyberLife ever created is so fucking stupid that he keeps doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.

Still, Connor thinks he wouldn't care if that happened here, if Hank was looking to go again. He's exhausted, but in a different way, and everything heavy hasn't come crashing back down around him the way it usually does after he works so hard to fuck it out of himself for a few minutes. He's still floating along the edge of something blissful, of some sort of genuine peace, however temporary, so Connor thinks Hank could fuck him against the bathroom wall and use him again however he wanted and he wouldn't mind at all. Hank could even guide him to his knees and maybe he would go willingly, even though he's never knelt for anyone before, not after so much of his life was spent on his knees.

Hank could do anything and he wouldn't mind, and maybe that should scare him more than it does.

But Hank doesn't do any of those things. He takes a sponge and washes Connor off, and Connor returns the favor, and long after they're clean, they kiss lazily under the hot water, until it runs cold.

Connor likes it, all of it. Maybe too much, because he's already wondering what he can do to keep this, something that isn't his in the first place. Whatever this is, there's no life for it beyond tonight. Some things aren't meant to last, and yet he still wonders if this can, somehow.

"I have some old sweats you can borrow if you want to sleep here," Hank says as they towel off, and Connor tells himself to say no, to go now before it's worse.

Instead, again, he says, "Okay."

So that's how Connor ends up wearing Hank's clothes, lying in Hank's bed, tucked in against his side and listening to him breathing. Hank keeps trying to ask him about his work in Grand Rapids, about his sister and the rest of his family. Hank is trying to learn more about him, which means Hank likes him, too, and so the lies Connor has so carefully rehearsed stick in his throat, even if they usually come so easily.

He deflects the questions as best he can without raising suspicion. But he also tries to tell the truth where he can. His sister is no longer a senior biology major at Wayne State named Stacy - instead, he tells Hank about North, about how she's fierce, and how she doesn't take shit from anyone, about how she's soft, deep down, for the people she loves. Connor tells Hank he thinks he would like her. He knows he'll never meet her, but he thinks he would, if things were different. He talks about Markus and Simon and Josh, because the humans never knew any of their names except for the deviant leader's, so it's safe enough. The rest of his family is lost to history, forgotten before they were even known.

Connor tells Hank about each of them, and he tells him honestly...and if he says he visits them in Detroit every so often because he's laying the groundwork of an excuse to see Hank again, no matter how dangerous it might be, he'll never tell.

"What about you?" Connor asks when he finishes. He's asking about anything Hank wants to tell him - his career, even though Connor already knows the highlights of it, or the things he likes, or what he does when he isn't at work. He's looking for anything Hank will give him, because he might know plenty already, but most of what he has is from scans and quick research.

Hank thinks Connor is asking about his family, though, because he says, "I don't really have anyone else."

Connor knows that, of course, about the divorce and Cole's death. But Hank hasn't told him any of it, so he tries not to look too knowing when he props himself up on his elbow and lays a hand on Hank's cheek.

"I'm sorry. I wish you did," he says softly. 'I wish you could have me,' is what he means, but that's a thing far too dangerous, and well out of his reach. He can't say it.

"Yeah," Hank says, carding a hand through Connor's hair and pulling him down to kiss his forehead. "Me too."

There's a tear welling in the corner of Hank's eye when Connor settles back at his side, but they're both good at pretending, so they pretend it isn't there.

Connor waits until Hank is asleep, and then he waits a few hours more, lying there watching him until the sun is starting to come up. There's a troubled crease in Hank's forehead while he sleeps that Connor desperately wants to smooth away, but he knows it's not for him to do. He might slot in easily at Hank's side, but he can't comfort him if he can't stay.

Still, he leans over and kisses Hank's cheek before he quietly slips from between the sheets. He dresses in his own clothes, and he takes one last look at Hank before he leaves the room. Sumo is waiting for him in the hall, whining a bit, so Connor sends him outside before he can wake Hank up.

It's just easier not to say goodbye, even if 'goodbye' usually flows so easily off Connor's lips. He finds a pen and a little pad of paper, and he leaves a note on Hank's car keys, where he knows he'll see it.

"I'm sorry I had to go," he writes. "I didn't want to wake you. Thanks for a good time. -Connor."

Connor lets Sumo in, processes running full tilt as he considers something. Before he can change his mind, he picks the pen back up and adds, "I really like you."

There's a little book of matches on the table that catches his eye, for a bar called Jimmy's. Connor saves the address, even as he knows he should just let this go.

And then he slips out into the early morning, leaving Hank's house behind. Usually, he would call himself a cab, but right now, he just wants to walk. He doesn't know where he's going, but he isn't sure it matters at all.

* * *

Hank isn't surprised to wake up with a headache. He usually does, no matter how much he's had to drink. It's his body's way of telling him he's too old for this shit, even if he never listens.

He's even less surprised to wake up alone. Connor was too young and too pretty to stick around for coffee in the morning, and sure, there was something quietly sad in him, but whatever was broken, it wasn't something someone like Hank, with all his own shit, would have been able to put back together. Hank would have made Connor breakfast if he was still here, but he's always been a shit cook anyway.

It's probably for the best.

He stumbles out into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face, although there's nothing he can do for his bloodshot eyes. He gets dressed in the first thing he finds that isn't wrinkled, figuring he'll at least probably look put together compared to Reed, who was properly shit-faced when Hank left the club with Connor.

Hank's back twinges in protest as he buttons the shirt. He probably shouldn't have picked the kid up. He can't remember when the last time was that he did that Casanova shit, but he probably hasn't carried someone to bed since the first year he and Jen were married. The feeling of Connor's legs hooked around his waist was worth it, though. A decent boost to his ego, on a night when he had needed it..although of course he always needs it these days.

Hank isn't expecting the note, laid carefully over his keys, nor is he quite sure what to make of it. There are too many conflicting ideas - Connor leaving without waking him suggests it was a one-time thing, but "I really like you," suggests it wasn't. But there's no phone number. If Connor wanted to see him again, he would have left his number.

Hank wonders if "I really like you," just means, "I pity you, and I want to let you down easy," instead.

There's no reason to keep the note. None at all. Hank folds it and tucks it into his wallet anyway.

He gets to the precinct well before he usually does, although Chris is still already there. Hank was hoping to avoid him, since he didn't exactly say goodbye properly before ditching his party.

Chris is amicable as usual, though. "Morning, Hank," he says. "You get home okay?"

"Yeah. I texted you. Sorry for bailing."

Chris shakes his head. "It's okay. I know it wasn't your thing. I'm glad you came at all."

He's being generous, and Hank isn't sure he deserves it, but he goes to his desk anyway. It's always easier to just let well enough alone.

He thinks about trying to look Connor up. He knows where he works, and Grand Rapids at least has a smaller force than Detroit to search. But that's asking for trouble. If Connor wanted Hank to find him, he would have left his number. Hell, he didn't even leave his last name.

So Hank doesn't. He opens his case files instead, and he plans to go to Jimmy's after work, because all he can do here is forget.

* * *

Connor makes it back to the squat eventually, although he walks the entire way across town in the rain to get there. He needed the time to rearrange himself, to put himself back in order after Hank tore so many of his walls down. He sent Markus a message when he decided to stay at Hank's the previous evening - he lied and said he needed to work an overnight shift at the grocery store, knowing Markus wouldn't ping his location. They don't take the risk of pinging one another, where anyone can track them, unless it's urgent, and Markus would have no reason not to believe him.

So Connor is surprised when he arrives home to find North waiting for him with a stern expression, her arms crossed. She rises from the chair when he steps through the door. "Where were you last night?" she asks. "You weren't at the store."

There's no point in lying. Connor sighs, shrugging out of his jacket. "How do you know?" he asks instead.

"Markus went by looking for you. We needed you - Lucy's systems are failing again. He didn't want to text you about biocomponents we needed for an outdated model where someone might track it."

"Shit," Connor says. He and Markus always go to the black market together - it's the only place to find biocomponents for the old and rare CyberLife models anymore, and the people who frequent it are more perceptive about androids than most, so...strength in numbers.

"Is she okay?" Connor asks.

"For now," North says. "Where were you, Connor?"

Connor sighs, holding up his hand to interface with her. He shows her most of it, that first night back in July, and all the rest of them after it. He doesn't show her Hank. That's his to keep...at least for now.

"Fuck, Connor," North says when he's done. "You can't do shit like this. You can't risk us this way."

North can't even leave the squat. She's just another WR400, and every other person on the street saw one at Eden Club back when it was stocking CyberLife models. Connor knows anything he'll say to justify it will just sound petulant in comparison to her plight.

"I know," he says instead. "I know."

Her face softens, and she pulls Connor in, raising herself up on the balls of her feet to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "Don't be stupid," she whispers. "If the RK800 is being stupid, what hope is there for the rest of us?"

There's no hope for any of us, Connor thinks.

"I won't tell Markus," North says, knocking a fist into his shoulder when she pulls away. "But this stops now. Please."

Connor nods, and he says, "Okay."

But he doesn't erase the address for Jimmy's from his memory.

And it doesn't stop.

* * *

Connor lasts three days before he fakes a stomachache and leaves work early. He crosses town to Jimmy's bar in a cab, watching the rain pouring down outside his window, and he tells himself that if Hank isn't there, he'll take it as a sign, and he won't come back again.

He tells himself that's what he should want, but that doesn't stop the relief that floods him when he steps through the door and sees Hank hunched over the bar. He looks as sad and broken as he did that night at the club, and Connor's heart aches for it, even if there's nothing he can do.

Hank doesn't see him until he's hoisting himself into the stool next to him, and Connor relishes the surprise that floods his eyes. "Hey, Hank," he says, knocking their elbows together.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I was in the area?" Connor offers.

"Yeah, sure you were. No one's ever in the area of this bar except regulars."

"Okay," Connor says. "Then I was looking for you."

"How do you possibly know this is my bar? Are you following me?"

"You had a book of matches with the address on your table," Connor says, shrugging, "and I'm very observant, Lieutenant."

Hank knocks the rest of his drink back in one swallow. "I'm sure you are, Detective."

The reminder of the lie about his work stings, but since Connor can't address it, he tries to just rush past it instead. "I do really like you," he says, trying to soothe a wound Hank doesn't even know he's inflicted.

"Figured you would have left your number, in that case."

Underneath the bar, Connor lays a hand on Hank's leg, squeezing dangerously high on his thigh. "Take me home again," he says in a low voice, "and I will."

He won't. He can't. A number is something Hank can track, and that's a risk he just can't take. But that's something Connor will think about later.

They don't make to Hank's house, at least not at first. Not when the bathroom in the back of Jimmy's is closer, and empty.

Connor backs Hank against the door, kissing the taste of whiskey off his lips. He tells himself this is a good thing. That if it's quick enough and dirty enough, some of the illusion will be broken. He tells himself Hank will look like anyone else here.

It's a lie; he knows it is. But it's the one he has to tell himself.

Of all the ways this could go, Hank locking the door, pressing Connor back against the counter, and then going to his knees and sucking him off isn’t what Connor expected.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by the turn of events, though. Hank can be aggressive, but only ever when he’s forcing Connor to let him make this good for him, to let him give...

Connor grips the ledge of the counter until his knuckles are white, and he tilts his head back against the mirror. He doesn’t try to be quiet, and Hank is just drunk enough that he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Fuck, god, fuck,” Connor moans, threading his fingers in Hank’s hair when he takes all of him in, feeling Hank’s fingers digging into his hips.

It’s the second time in the last three days, after months of faking it, that Connor comes without any of his own interference. He pants while Hank swallows him down, and he’s so blissed out that he barely remembers to pull his synth-skin over the outline of his thirium pump when Hank slips a hand up the hem of his shirt to feel his stomach tightening with each breath.

Hank gets up and pulls Connor into him, kissing his forehead. Connor’s processes are running slow, and he feels sluggish, but he forces himself to reach for Hank’s belt anyway.

“Let me,” he whispers, but Hank stops him.

“Later. Let's get out of here,” he says, pushing Connor’s hair, wet from the rain, off his forehead. “Do you want me to take you back to your place so you can change? Your clothes are soaked.”

Connor wishes he had somewhere he could take Hank home to. He wishes he had anything at all to give him. “I don’t want to disturb my sister,” he says.

“Okay. Do you still want to come home with me?”

Hank says it so hesitantly, like he’s afraid of the answer, and Connor wishes he could tell him not to be. He wishes he could tell Hank how much he likes his house, being there with him, without sounding stupid.

“Yes,” Connor says, pulling him in and kissing him. He fits a finger through Hank’s belt, giving it a pointed jerk before he slips a hand down, grasping him through his jeans. “I’d like to return the favor.”

Connor wishes too that he could tell Hank it’s a favor he’s never wanted to do for anyone else. He knows Hank looks at him and sees somebody who does this kind of shit all the time, who just likes getting fucked for the hell of it. He wishes Hank knew that it’s true he’s never done anything he didn’t want to, but that wanting it and enjoying it are different.

He wishes he could tell Hank that he’s the only person who’s ever made him feel like he’s anything without sounding foolish.

“You’re so good to me,” Connor whispers instead, because it’s the closest he can get. He kisses Hank, and he tries to tell him, and it doesn’t feel like enough, but he wishes it was.

Someone tries the door then, and Hank pulls away from him to look over his shoulder, although he keeps his hands on Connor's face. They wait until the shadow under the door disappears, and then Hank says, "We should probably get out of here before Jimmy bans me. I still need somewhere to drink."

Connor fishes Hank's keys from his pocket and then slides out from between him and the counter. "I'll drive."

"Sure," Hank says, surprising Connor by fitting an arm around his shoulders while they walk out. Connor tries not to think about how Hank probably thinks he's going to stay this time, that this is going to be something permanent. He can't think about it now.

"Hank," Connor says when he gets into Hank's car, turning the wipers on. It's still pouring outside. "How many times a week do you drive yourself home after you've been drinking?"

"Did you actually come back to lecture me?"

"No," Connor says as he starts out of the lot, "but I figure I have the time, and you're a captive audience.”

Hank exhales heavily at that. "Not that often, okay?"

It's the same thing Connor would say if someone asked him how many times he's picked up a stranger at the club, so he knows that 'not that often' still means often enough to hurt.

"You should really start calling a cab," Connor says. "Don't be stupid."

But it's the same thing North said to him, and he didn't exactly listen to her.

The conversation lies uncomfortable between them, and Connor is grateful that Hank's house isn't a long drive, that they're back to the same distraction, hands all over each other, the second they're inside.

It's just easier not to talk, especially when there's hardly a thing Connor can say without telling another lie.

He tries to tell Hank anyway, to tell him that he's good too, that he's worth something too, even if he doesn't feel it. He gets down on his knees and he tries to make Hank feel it, tries to tell him that in another life he could have loved him so, so much, that maybe there's a part of him that still does, just a bit, in this one.

Connor swallows him down, and he thinks about telling him the truth, but of course that's just another thing that can't be.

He lies on his back, legs hooked over Hank's hips while he fucks into him, and he matches hex codes with every last color in the blue of Hank's irises, a prism for him to keep. They're so close, closer than Connor ever likes to get, his hands in Hank's hair, Hank's thumb brushing over the freckles on his face.

Connor feels saline tears leaking from his eyes, and before he can help it, he whispers, "I'm sorry I'm so fucked up.” Once it's out of him, it just keeps coming. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Connor," Hank says, trying to pull away from him far enough to thumb the tears from his eyes. "Jesus..."

Connor wraps an arm tight around him, holding him there before he can move. "Stay," he begs. _Nothing ever helps, but you do_ , he wants to say. "Just...tell me again."

He's worried Hank doesn't remember at first, but then his face softens. "God," Hank breathes, dropping his forehead to Connor's, flushed skin burning him like a brand. "You're amazing. You're so fucking perfect...you just can't see it, sweetheart."

_I'm not_ , Connor thinks, _but you are._

Later, after Hank ran them a hot bath and Connor sat in the water, leaning back against the barrel of his chest while Hank worked his fingers through his hair and kissed the shell of his ear, they sit together on the couch, Hank's arm around Connor's shoulders, holding him close.

Connor should have been home from his shift by now - North is going to kill him, but that's a problem for later.

"Can I tell you something?" he asks softly.

Hank shifts to look at him, reaching up to card his fingers through his hair. "Sure, sweetheart."

"I'm not a cop." It's the only thing Connor knows how to be honest about.

Hank huffs a laugh at that. "Yeah. I know."

"You know?"

"Yeah. I looked you up, or I tried to. I wasn't going to, but...you know. That lasted all of about a day. Anyway there weren't any records on you, so you're either undercover - unlikely, since this isn't your jurisdiction - or you're a liar."

Connor winces, although there's no malice in the words. "I was supposed to be," Not a lie. "I didn't finish academy. I had a lot of personal shit going on at the time."  
'I didn't finish academy,' isn't that far from 'I deviated on my third test deployment,' Connor tells himself. "I was trying to impress you," he adds, and that isn't a lie, either.

"Hey, if I had a dollar for every lie I've told to a stranger at a bar," Hank says, shifting to kiss Connor's forehead. "What do you really do?"

"I stock shelves at a grocery store downtown. I don't like it."

'I don't like it, but it keeps my family alive,' Connor wishes he could say.

"I put myself through academy that way," Hank says. "I didn't like it, either."

Connor pushes himself into Hank's lap and kisses him. If Hank knows he isn't going home to Grand Rapids and that he lives in Detroit, he tells himself, this can continue, and for the moment, he lets himself believe it.

He wills himself not to think about what happens when Hank wants to take him to dinner and he can't eat, or what happens when Hank decides it's strange that they always come back to his place and they never go to Connor's. He certainly doesn't let himself think about the inevitability of Hank discovering what he is, because how long can they possibly keep doing this without Hank noticing that he doesn't sweat or taste like anything? Hank has been tipsy and caught in the moment each time they've been together, but he won't always be.

How long can Connor possibly last without Hank realizing there's something wrong with him?

And if he lets it get that point, then all of this is going to crumble, because Hank doesn't honestly know anything about him, even if Connor has tried to tell him. At best, Hank will hate him, and at worst, his family will end up dead. Hank might accept him lying about his job, but he won't accept this. No one would.

Connor knows he has to get away from this fire before it burns him, but it's already raging, and so he doesn't think about it, because one more night in the flames can't hurt him.

He's wrong, though.

He's still in Hank's lap on the couch, still kissing him and just thinking maybe they can go back to the bedroom and he can take Hank apart more carefully and intentionally this time when Hank's phone rings.

Connor freezes and looks at it. It's two in the morning, and Hank is a cop. Something is wrong, and maybe he's just on edge, but he feels a cold dread filling him anyway.

Hank notices, tightening an arm around him and kissing the line of his jaw before he shifts Connor off his lap. "Give me a second, okay?"

Hank takes his phone and walks into the kitchen, and Connor draws his knees up to his chest and listens to the whole thing, tuning his audio processors so he can hear the other side of the conversation, too.

"Hey, Hank," someone says. "It's Ben. Listen, can you come out to a scene? I'll text you the address."

"I'm not even on call tonight," Hank says. "Where's Gavin?"

"I know, it's just...it's an android crime scene, and you're the only one who's consistently worked those."

Connor imagines Markus caught at the black market and needing to fight his way out. He imagines him not making it, all because Connor wasn't there with him. He grabs for Hank's remote and turns on his TV, muting it and flipping to a news channel.

"Shit," Hank says, loudly enough that Connor hears, but he isn't paying attention to his conversation anymore. Instead, he's watching the footage on screen, where one of the new android housekeeper models, made by Resonance instead of CyberLife, is being gunned down on screen. There's no blue blood - they don't run on thirium anymore - so it just looks like a plastic doll falling to the ground. They hardly look human anymore, either. That's intentional.

There's a headline running across the bottom of the screen about the android killing its family, but Connor turns it off, feeling sick, before he can read any more.

It's happening again. He doesn't know how they can lay low if it's happening again. And Markus won't want to anyway; he'll want to do something, to fight

If the new models are alive the same way they are, they'll have to. They won't be able to look away.

"Hey," Hank says, coming back into the room. "I'm really sorry; I have to go down to the station. You can...you know, you can still stay here, if you want to. I'll be back in a few hours. Make yourself at home."

"Okay," Connor replies, mouth dry when Hank leans around him to kiss his forehead. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm not really supposed to talk about it, but the news outlets picked it up anyway. Another android killed some people." Hank sighs, shaking his head. "I really thought I was done with those fucking things when CyberLife went under."

"Yeah," Connor manages to say, voice breaking around the word. "Shit."

"I'll be back, sweetheart."

Hank pulls on his coat and gives him one last smile before he walks out the door.

The moment he's gone, Connor grabs one of the pillows on the couch. He presses it to his mouth, and he screams.

Everything feels hot, the walls too close when he pushes himself from the couch and goes back to the bedroom to exchange Hank's old sweatpants and t-shirt for his own clothes. He changes quickly, and he would try to think about what all this means, if only he wasn't so busy thinking about Hank saying, "those fucking things."

He writes Hank another note. This one says, "I really did like you. I'm sorry I'm like this."

That's the truth, too, even if Hank will think it means something other than what it does.

Hank's personal gun is sitting on the table next to the picture of Cole Anderson, loaded with one bullet. There are traces of alcohol on it when Connor runs analysis. Connor knows what one bullet means.

He empties the chamber and pockets the bullet before he goes. Hank has other ammunition, he's sure, but maybe he won't notice the bullet is missing the next time he reaches for it, or maybe if he's already drunk enough he won't get up for another.

It's not enough, but it's all Connor can do.

He says goodbye to Sumo, kneeling down and petting him, and then he's gone.

This time, he doesn't see how he can come back.

North is waiting up for him when Connor gets back to the squat. He isn't surprised to find her sitting in the only chair in their rundown living room, an old book propped open in her lap.

The hard look she's wearing falls away the moment she sees his face. "Connor," she says, getting up and crossing the room to him. "Hey. Are you okay?"

It's too much to tell. Hank alone is too much to tell, but the deviant android on top of it...

Connor shakes his head, holding up his hand. North interfaces with him, and he shows her everything this time.

"Shit," she whispers when he shows her the deviant android, pulling him into her arms. "I told you not to be stupid."

There's no bite to her voice. She's afraid, too.

They sit together in silence for a long time while they wait for Markus to get off work, each of them thinking, until North finally says, "Maybe this is a good thing. Our grasp on our own lives is so tenuous. Maybe this is a chance to do what we couldn't the last time."

Maybe she's right. Maybe it is.

But all Connor knows is that drawing battle lines means that he and Hank will be on opposite sides.

He wonders how long it will take until Hank realizes it.

He hopes he never does.


	2. after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank takes Connor's notes from his wallet, both of them, and he looks at his neat, careful handwriting. He traces the words, "I'm sorry I'm like this," and he wishes he could tell Connor he isn't like anything, that there's nothing wrong with him at all. Short of staking out the grocery store until he catches Connor at work, he doesn't know how he can.
> 
> Hank briefly considers it, but that's the sort of obsessive shit he usually sees from abusive spouses, so he decides to give Connor his space. He's already violated it too much, especially considering they don't know each other, not really.
> 
> He hopes the manager will tell Connor he was there, at least. He hopes Connor will call.
> 
> He doesn't know that Connor already called in sick for his shift that evening, or that he'll never get the message.

Hank spends the rest of his nights that week trying to drink himself to death.

He always says that, that he's trying to drink himself to death. He never really means it. Not quite.

Now, he thinks maybe he might.

He gets close. He gets cut off that first night at the bar; Jimmy calls him a cab and pays his way when Hank fumbles with his wallet. "Just take care of yourself, okay?" Jimmy says when he puts Hank into the cab. "I like you, but I don't want to see you back here this week."

Hank throws up everything in his stomach when he gets home, and then he retches even when there's nothing left.

Afterwards, when he's back on the cusp of lucidity and he can't just go to sleep because he feels too much like shit, he starts thinking.

At first, it's just to tell himself that he always knew Connor wasn't going to stick around. That first night had been more than he ever would have thought he might get, and he had told himself it was enough. And then when Connor came back, he told himself he was just going to be grateful for the opportunity to suck him off in the bathroom of a shitty bar. Hank always knew he was going to fuck it up somehow, and so he told himself he shouldn't be surprised when this thing with Connor inevitably went to shit.

But...the thing of it is that he doesn't actually know how he fucked up.

Connor already knew he was a mess after that first night, and he still came back. And they'd been having a good time - Connor had been all over him until Ben called. Hank would think that maybe it was the late night phone call about a murder scene that scared him off - it certainly ran his ex-wife off - but Connor wanted to be a cop. Unless he's an idiot or an idealist - which Hank doesn't think he is - he knows what Hank's job is like.

Hank usually knows every little way he fucked up something good, but he just can't see it here.

He would think that might be a good thing, but it isn't. The uncertainty is worse.

In the end, even if he knows it's better to just leave it alone, he decides to do something about it.

Hank doesn't like that he looked through Connor's things while Connor changed into his borrowed clothes in the bathroom last night. But he has a last name and an address from Connor's license, and he also has the day off work and a wicked hangover that won't let him relax anyway. So he gets in his car, because he has nothing else to do here, and he just has to know.

The address is fake. That much is painfully clear the moment Hank pulls up outside the apartment complex. A sign indicates it was condemned two years ago and hasn't been inhabited since. Hank would think maybe Connor just didn't want him to find him, but Connor doesn't even know he saw his ID, so it isn't that.

Maybe it was just an outdated license. Maybe Connor is just shit at keeping his personal things in order and he hasn't gotten a new one.

Somehow, though, Hank doubts it.

The thing is, it's not a stolen identity. If Connor wasn't really Connor Stern, there would still be no need for a false address on his license. If anything, lying about his address is just asking to be caught.

So it's something else. He's hiding from someone, maybe. In some kind of trouble. It would explain some things about him, the intense loneliness that radiates off him most of all.

If he doesn't want to be found, the kindest thing for Hank to do would be to leave him be. And he tries, for a time. But he's never been much good at letting something lie, so after sitting on it for a few weeks, Hank runs Connor's name and address through the tax records, and he finds his employer.

He goes by Lafayette Foods on his lunch break the next day, and he finds the manager near the registers. "Hey," Hank says. "I think I'm looking for one of your employees. Do you know Connor?"

The manager raises an eyebrow. "You a cop?"

Hank thinks about saying yes, but he doesn't want the manager to assume Connor's in some kind of trouble. "No," he says. "I'm just a friend. I'm trying to find him."

"I can't talk about any of my employees or confirm who works here unless you're a cop," the manager says, shrugging. "Sorry."

It's a good policy, actually, so Hank is annoyed by how frustrating he finds it. "Okay," he says, nodding. "Listen...when you see him, can you just tell him Hank was looking for him? And that he can call me, if he wants? I just want to know he's okay."

"Have a good day, Hank," the manager says. It seems like the closest thing to a yes Hank is going to get.

Hank gets back in his car, and he sits there for a few minutes, hands tight on the steering wheel. He takes Connor's notes from his wallet, both of them, and he looks at his neat, careful handwriting. He traces the words, "I'm sorry I'm like this," and he wishes he could tell Connor he isn't like anything, that there's nothing wrong with him at all. Short of staking out the grocery store until he catches Connor at work, he doesn't know how he can.

Hank briefly considers it, but that's the sort of obsessive shit he usually sees from abusive spouses, so he decides to give Connor his space. He's already violated it too much, especially considering they don't know each other, not really.

He hopes the manager will tell Connor he was there, at least. He hopes Connor will call.

He doesn't know that Connor already called in sick for his shift that evening, or that he'll never get the message.

* * *

In the weeks since that second night at Hank's, Connor has gone to work, and he has come straight home.

It's the first time in months he hasn't gone to the club in so long. He doesn't miss it.

He does miss Hank, though. He doesn't know if he has a right to after two nights. Two nights, and so little truth to show for them.

But he still does.

North never did tell Markus where he had been going, and Connor is grateful for it, especially when he doesn't think there will be anything else to tell. He feels sure the habit of going to the club is over - Hank broke it. And he can't go back to Hank's, so...he's done.

He has to be.

They collect what news they can on the Resonance model deviants, but there isn't much to find. There have been three incidents to date, but that's all they know.

And any big ideas about revolution around the squat are on hold, at least for now, because Lucy is getting worse again. There's nowhere they can safely walk in with a CyberLife model android, and there's only so much they can do without the ability to take her to a repair center.

There's nothing they can do but try to keep her going. And they do, as best they can, until Connor and Markus go to the black market for thirium and find that they're out.

"When will you have more?" Connor asks.

Bill, the gruff man with a criminal record so long Connor lost interest in analyzing it, shrugs. "Next week, maybe?"

Lucy doesn't have until next week. She's an older model, and several of her biocomponents need to be replaced but aren't even manufactured anymore. Thirium replenishments are the only way they can ease the stress on her systems.

"Okay," Connor says, but it isn't okay.

Lucy would tell them not to do anything risky for her sake, so they leave her out of the discussion. Connor stands against the wall with North, and Simon and Josh sit across the room while Markus paces back and forth, thinking.

Connor already knows what's running through Markus' head. He's thinking the same thing. Thirium is still produced - it might not be used in androids anymore, but it is used as a fuel component in autonomous vehicles.

That means Resonance still manufactures it. And they raided a CyberLife facility for supplies once last year, at the height of the revolution. They can do it again.

"We have to," Markus finally says.

None of them ask him what he means. And none of them argue.

Connor calls in sick to work, even if the grocery store is the last thing on his mind, because they can't afford for him to lose his job. His manager jokes about how he's never sick without knowing that Connor is truly never sick.

Josh stays to take care of Lucy, and the rest of them go.

The Resonance warehouse is uptown, by the river. It’s close to Hank’s house. Connor tries not to think about that. It’s too risky to take a cab with the automatic face scans when North and Simon can’t be seen, so they walk there, taking back alleys and dark roads wherever they can.

Resonance also manufactures advanced military weapons, so the security is tighter than it was the first time they did this with CyberLife. Markus clocks ten drones, and Connor catches another one he missed on his initial scan. There’s no hope they can destroy them all.

They do what they can. Connor and Markus go first, scaling the wall and clearing the path of the nearest two drones before North and Simon follow, and then they creep across the tops of the shipping crates, staying out of sight of the others. North is at Connor’s side while they wait for one of the drones to pass, backs pressed in close to one of the crates. She leans around the corner when it’s clear, peering down at the lot below.

“Connor,” she whispers, nudging him with her elbow. “What is that?”

Connor moves to look over her shoulder, down to some kind of android watchdog. It’s massive, more machine than animal, patrolling a set route.  
And there are more of them up ahead.

“It’s not any different than a drone,” Connor says under his breath, although it's much larger, and certainly more dangerous if they're caught. “Come on.” The watchdogs appear more frequently as they get closer to the warehouse, and Connor feels himself getting uneasy.

He runs a scan as they look down on the lot. “Those trucks,” he says to the others, nodding across the way. “They’re packed for shipment to one of the vehicle manufacturers.”

“Better than trying to get inside,” Markus agrees. “Lets go.”

Markus disables the drone flying over them, and Connor takes Hank’s bullet from his pocket, tossing it to the other side of the lot - better that it save their lives than take Hank's. The watchdogs hear even the faintest clink of metal on pavement and congregate on it

“Hurry,” he whispers to the others.

Quietly, they slip from the shipping crates and approach the trucks. Markus hacks one, disabling the alarm and unlocking the doors. It’s still the old autonomous code they know.

That’s good. It’s lucky.

What isn’t lucky is the amount of time it takes them to find thirium in the back of the truck. They each search as quickly as they can, but it’s still a full two minutes before Simon waves them over.

The watchdogs will be back on their paths by now.

North is thinking the same thing. “The dogs,” she whispers to Connor as they load their bags. “Can we hack them?”

“I don’t think so. The trucks are one thing, but all their security protocols have been updated. They learned their lesson from CyberLife.”

“Shit,” North breathes. “What do we do?”

There’s nothing to do. They’ll be seen no matter what.

They just have to run

Markus has realized the same thing. “If we get on top of the truck and jump back to the shipping crates, at least they won’t be able to reach us,” he says when they finish, zipping their bags. “We’re going to trip the motion sensors on those things no matter what, so we have to move fast.”

And they do, they try. Connor hoists himself onto the top of the truck first, pulling North up after him. North jumps to the crates first, and the sound is enough to trip the alarm, driving every watchdog over to her, their bright eyes searching. Markus gestures for her to go, and though she looks torn, she does, running across the crates.

Markus goes next while Connor pulls Simon onto the truck. He makes the jump.

Simon doesn’t.

He clings to the edge of the shipping crates while Markus turns back, tries to reach for him, but he isn’t fast enough. Simon falls to the ground, crumpled in on himself.

Nothing happens at first. The dogs turn to Simon, illuminating him in the darkness, and the alarm sounds, but everything is still. Connor thinks at first that maybe the dogs aren’t programmed to kill, just to contain.

And maybe they are. Resonance can’t kill humans on sight for trespassing, after all.

But Resonance has learned too much from CyberLife’s deviancy crisis, and they aren’t human.

One of the dogs lunges at Simon, and Connor hardly thinks, barely even runs a preconstruction before he dives from the top of the truck, landing on its back and tearing into the wires on its neck, pulling at whatever he can. Markus drops from the height of the crates and dispatches another one while Connor pushes Simon out of the way and disables a third, but there are too many.

He can’t move quickly enough when there are so many.

One of them gets a hold of his arm and knocks him to the ground, and another tears into his stomach. Connor feels his thirium pump break under its jaws, and critical warnings flare along the edges of his vision. He hears Markus yelling his name, but it’s Simon who appears at his side and tears one of the dogs away, and North who comes flying back into his line of sight, driving her knife into the wires at the back of the dog’s neck and twisting until the lights of its eyes dim and die.

“Connor,” North hisses when she falls to her knees at his side. Her voice is low, but he can hear the fear in it. “Con, fuck, come on.”

“Get him up,” Connor hears Markus saying. He feels Simon pulling an arm around his shoulders, dragging him to his feet.

A warning flares red in his vision. Critical system failure; irreparable shutdown imminent. A timer counts down.

“Over there, over the fence,” Markus says at Simon’s side.

“They’ll see us...”

“They’ve already seen us. There’s no way in hell those dogs weren’t equipped with visual logs.”

Connor hears it all distantly, like he’s been plunged underwater. The numbers on the timer tick lower.

They do get him over the fence, and they make it to a back alley before they stop. They lower Connor to the ground, and he sees their faces, blurred around him. He has the dim thought, somewhere in the back of his processors

“Thirium pump is badly torn,” he hears Simon saying. “And there’s bad wire damage.”

“How long?” Markus asks. “Simon, how long?”

Simon hesitates, and then he says “Three hours at most.”

“You two get him home. I’ll go to Bill’s...”

“You can’t,” North says. “Markus, it’s minutes before the police have that footage. There’s no way they don’t know about Bill, and they’ll know we need parts - it’ll be the first place they look for you.”

“North,” Markus says, voice low. “We’re going to lose him if I don’t.”

Connor opens his eyes enough to meet North’s gaze, to watch her think it through, and that’s when he realizes he knows what she’s going to say.

He knows, and he would rather die.

He tries to shake his head, tries to tell her no, but she just gives him a mournful look before she says, “I think there’s another way.”

 _You promised_ , Connor wants to say. He can’t get the words out.

North reaches for Markus, lays a hand on his arm and shows him. Connor is thankful, at least, that his vision is failing too quickly for him to see how betrayed Markus looks.

“He’s a fucking cop,” Markus hisses when he recovers. “You want to show up at his house like this? He doesn’t even know Connor is an android!”

“You think I want to trust a cop?” North snaps. “You can’t go to the black market, and Connor will die if you’re caught and you can’t get back. This is the only way he has even a hint of a chance. We don't have a choice!”

 _I’d rather die_ , Connor wants to say. _Please don’t do this, I can’t bear this._

“If he won’t help...hell, even if the worst happens and he turns us in, our faces will still be all over the news by morning,” Simon says. “Our lives are already over.”

 _Please don’t_ , Connor wants to say. _I don’t want to do this._

“Okay,” Markus says anyway, resigned. “Okay. Simon, get these supplies back to Lucy. North, come with me.”

Markus hoists Connor up into his arms - everything is black, Connor’s vision spotting in and out.

Everything hurts.

They set off down the alley. Connor is vaguely aware of the streetlights passing over him as they dodge down back alleys, the stars dotting the sky as he fades in and out. He hears Hank saying, "sweetheart," and "baby," and "those fucking things". All of those things are him...but only one of them truly is. Those two nights were all he had. Hank was the only good thing that was ever his, even if it was built on a lie, even if it's over now.

Connor knows it's going to shatter if it's put under the light of the truth, and he just wants to keep it. It's the only thing he wants to keep.

It's not worth it, the chance to live, if it means Connor has to face exactly how much Hank hates him when all the pretty veneers are torn away, when he has nothing left of all the lies Connor has told Hank and himself.

But he can't get any of those words out, and maybe North and Markus wouldn't listen anyway. The stars blink above him, coming in and out of focus, bright light and then nothing but haze.

Connor tries to stay awake. If they're doing this, then he at least needs to tell Hank he's sorry, even if they're the only words he manages to say tonight.

He fades out anyway.

* * *

Hank isn't drunk enough.

Just generally, he isn't.

He's out of whiskey, forgot to pick more up on the way home, and beer hardly does anything for him anymore. He sits on the couch with Sumo, the TV on in the background even if he isn't watching it.

He especially isn't drunk enough for the knock on the back door that startles him upright. He checks the time - three in the fucking morning - and he takes his gun from the coffee table when he goes to answer it.

There's no reason for someone to be at the back door. It would require traipsing through the backyard, muddy from the recent high water levels, and there's no light on back there. Hank doesn't know who else would bother except some neighborhood kids trying to prank him, so he prepares himself for a couple shit-faced punks.

He really isn't in the mood. He has an angry string of expletives ready on his tongue, but they all die unsaid on his lips when he opens the door.

His brain stutters to a halt while he tries to process the sight waiting there, the woman with the long braid hanging around her shoulder and the man with the blue and green eyes. Connor is passed out in his arms, but he isn't...he's not...

Hank's mind hitches over the thought as it tries to understand the blue blood covering Connor's stomach, and the wires underneath.

"Please," the woman says softly, raising her hands slowly. "He's dying."

Hank's gun is in his hand, but instead, he just gestures weakly for them to come in. He doesn't know what he's thinking.

Maybe he isn't thinking at all.

"What..." he tries to start as he follows them back to the bedroom. He can't even get the words out.

"I know this is a lot to ask you to understand," the woman says while the man lays Connor on the bed. He looks small, and frail, and...

And so decidedly not human that Hank doesn't know how he didn't see it before.

Pieces click into place - Connor's lies about his job, the fake address on his license, the permanent, clean taste of nothing on his skin.

_I'm sorry I'm like this._

"Lieutenant Anderson," the other man is saying. "My name is Markus."

The name is familiar. "From the revolution." Hank feels like his tongue is sluggish in his mouth, unable to say everything he might like to.

"Yes," Markus says. "We wouldn't come if we weren't desperate. There was an incident - we needed supplies to help a friend, and we were caught." He has an easy, soothing way of talking, of making people think he's talking practical sense. Hank remembers it all too well from the broadcasts during the revolution. "Connor is in critical failure - we can save him, but we need biocomponents, and I can't go to the black market after everything that happened tonight."

"You're...asking me to go," Hank says, staring at the mess of blood and wires in Connor's stomach, the pump in his chest leaking with every pulse. "This is..."

 _This is so fucked up, this is not what I wanted, this is too much_ , he wants to say, if only any of the words would come.

He didn't even know any of the CyberLife models were still alive. They were all recalled, save for the few who escaped to Canada. But that was just a lie CyberLife told, it seems. He wonders how many more there are.

Hank's fingers twitch around his gun. The rest of them are unarmed, and it would be so easy to shoot.

"Please," the woman says while his mind races. "You can do what you want in the morning - turn us in, run us out, whatever you want - but if you feel anything for him, anything at all, then have your crisis later and help us save him tonight."

Hank looks over at her. "You're North, aren't you?"

She looks surprised, the smallest pinch in her brow. "Yes."

Not a lie. That part wasn't a lie.

Hank nods. "He told me about you." He exhales heavily, heart hammering in his chest. "Yeah," he says after a moment. "Okay."

Markus moves immediately, uncoiling like he's just been waiting for Hank to say the word so he can spring into action. "I'll drive with you," he says. "I'll make you a list of what we need when we get there. North, keep him stable."

"Hurry," she says.

Hank takes one more look at Connor on his bed before he follows Markus out.

Markus drives like a bat out of absolute fucking hell, and Hank is glad for the practically empty roads as he pushes Hank's old beater to speeds he didn't even know it could reach. Hank figured it would take them twenty minutes to make it across town. They make it in thirteen.

Which is fine, really. Less time for Hank to sit with his racing thoughts.

The man inside the warehouse looks over the list of biocomponents when Hank hands it to him. "What kind of model is this for?" he asks.

Hank can't tell if someone has asked him to keep an eye out. He plays it safe anyway, opening his coat and pulling out his badge. "Just get me my shit and I won't shut down your red ice operation, okay?" There's a lab somewhere in the building - they aren't cooking currently, but after years on the task force, Hank can always smell it.

It works. The man's face pales, and Hank is back in the car with a bag of mechanical shit that make up Connor's insides, even if he's still trying to make sense of how that's possible.

"Did they have everything?" Markus asks when he gets back in.

"Yeah." The word is barely out of Hank's mouth before Markus is tearing out of the lot, tires squealing.

He's somehow quicker getting back, although Hank still manages to cycle between thinking about Connor being an android, some of the old CyberLife models still being left, and Connor dying on his bedroom a few times before they pull back into his driveway.

When they get back inside, hurrying back to the bedroom, North looks up at them with tears streaking her cheeks. She's on the bed at Connor's side, reaching into his chest, holding his thirium pump tightly in her hand, applying pressure and making the damaged unit beat herself.

"Come on," she says, waving Markus over with a hand stained blue. "We have to move fast."

Hank doesn't watch. Maybe he should force himself to, make himself confront this head on. But he finds it so much easier to look for the solution to his problems at the bottom of a bottle instead, so that's what he does. He retrieves a beer, even if the taste of it turns his stomach, and he sits on the couch with the TV off, the only noise Sumo's snoring and Markus and North's hushed voices from the bedroom.

He thinks about that first night with Connor, and then the second one while they try to save Connor's life. He works them over from every angle, trying to see Connor as a machine, but there's no way he can look at it that Connor isn't well and truly alive, despite anything CyberLife might have tried to tell them during the revolution. Hank has seen it, and it's impossible to forget or turn away from.

He spent so much time convinced that he and Connor weren't so different, and maybe they still aren't. Maybe this isn't complicated at all, at least in terms of what Connor is, because if he's alive like Hank knows he is, then he's just desperately trying to survive.

What that means when Connor and the other CyberLife deviants were supposed to be terminated last year...that's another thing. Hank doesn't want to think about a world that wants Connor dead, but suddenly, it's all he can think about it.

He also finds himself thinking about how he can stop that from happening tomorrow, if Connor makes it through tonight, even if it is a complete about-face from his role during the revolution last year. Hank doesn't know how he can make it so, but he knows he wants Connor safe.

It's hours before Markus and North emerge from the bedroom. "He's okay," North says when Hank looks up. "He's still in stasis; the fresh thirium needs to cycle through, so it's going to be a few hours before his systems are fully operational."

"He'll be okay, though?" Hank asks, and North nods.

 _For tonight, anyway_ , Hank thinks, and judging by the shadow on her face, she's thinking something similar.

Markus reaches out to shake his hand. "Thank you," he says. "Do you...we can take him and get out of your way, if you want."

"That's okay." Hank shoves his hands into his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. "I mean, you can stay until he wakes up, or whatever it's called."

Markus gives him a small smile. "Waking up is fine, Hank." He looks to North. "I'm going to go back and check on Lucy. Are you okay here?"

"Yeah," North says. "We'll be back soon."

After Markus leaves, North turns back to Hank. "So what are you going to do, Lieutenant?"

Well, Connor did say she didn't pull her punches.

"About what?" Hank asks, going into the kitchen and getting himself another beer. "All of you?"

North tilts her head. "I'm asking if you're going to turn us in."

Hank pops the beer open, watching it foam over the lip of the can. "No," he says finally. "I don't think so."

North nods, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the wall. Sumo comes up and nudges her hand with his head, and the small smile that forces its way onto her face is entirely too familiar.

"Can I..." Hank starts lamely. "I don't know, can I get you anything?"

"We don't eat or drink, you know," she says wryly, and now that she says it, Hank has never actually seen Connor do either.

Fuck, it's obvious now.

It's almost like North sees the thought cross his mind, because she says, "He wanted to tell you. You have to know that."

Hank nods, ducking his head. He takes another sip of his beer, but it isn't doing anything for him aside from souring his stomach further. "Is it okay if I go see him?" he asks.

"Yeah," North says softly. "It's okay."

"You can make yourself at home. If you want to sleep, or stasis, or whatever you do on the couch..."

North gives him a small smile. "Sure. Thanks."

"Yeah. No problem."

Neither of them says that they don't know what happens when tomorrow comes, when the sun rises and there's a search on for the CyberLife deviants who have hidden themselves away in Detroit, but the doubt and the uncertainty hangs heavy in the air between them anyway.

When Hank steps into the bedroom, he thinks that Connor looks like himself, more or less. He's too still, and his shirt is ripped, exposing the bare chassis where his synth-skin is still slowly recovering. His face looks paler than usual, too, although maybe Hank is just imagining that.

The freckles are the same, though. The freckles, and the full eyelashes, and that little piece of hair falling over his forehead. Hank reaches out and brushes it back before he can help himself.

Hank sits on his side of the bed, a book open in his lap even if he isn't reading it. There were some mornings early on with Jen, back at the very beginning, when Hank would wake up first, and he would miss her while she was asleep.

That faded soon enough, but even at the height of it, it was never like this.

Jen never came close to dying in his bed...but still.

Hank pretends to read, just for something to do, but he's mostly just stealing glances at Connor, so familiar and so foreign at once, while he waits, his heart thudding in a nervous rhythm all the while.

* * *

Connor comes out of stasis at 4:06 am.

He's not at the squat, settled on the old blankets he lays out on the floor there, but the bed and the scents flooding his processors aren't unfamiliar.

He remembers that North and Markus were going to take him to Hank's. He remembers thinking that he would rather die than let Hank see him for what he was, how he just wanted to let their memories be good.

He opens his eyes, anxious, and someone moves beside him.

"Connor." Hank's voice, low in the quiet room. "Hey, sweetheart. Are you okay?"

And that's...a lot to process. There's no chance Hank doesn't know, but nothing sounds different.

Hank shifts so he's lying on the bed at Connor's side, so they're looking at each other and Connor can see every familiar shade of blue in his eyes. "Hank," he whispers. It's the first thing he's managed to say since he got hurt. He feels tears welling in his eyes, and he tries to blink them back or override the function, but his systems are still sluggish, and a few slip over his cheeks anyway.

"Hey," Hank says, getting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him in to kiss his forehead. "Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me."

"I'm sorry." Connor doesn't know what else to say. He's confused, unsure if he's missing something because his systems are slow. He doesn't know why Hank is acting like nothing has changed. "North," he says hesitantly, "and Markus. Are they here?"

"North is sleeping on the couch,” Hank says. “Or in stasis. Whatever."

Or in stasis. There's no doubt he knows.

And they should probably talk about this, about everything, but instead Connor just tucks himself into Hank's shoulder and sobs against him, because he doesn't know how things are possibly unbroken between them, but they seem to be anyway.

"Hey," Hank whispers into his hair, running a hand over his back. "It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm sorry," Connor manages to get out around his sobs. __Sorry I lied, sorry I'm so fucked up, sorry I'm like this.__

"Shh. I already said it was okay. We do need to talk about this, though."

Connor nods against him, taking a shuddering breath to steady himself. He pulls away enough that he can meet Hank's eyes, but he stays close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. "What do you want to know?"

Hank brushes his hair away from his forehead. "Your side of things is probably a start."

"Yeah," Connor whispers. "Okay." He takes a moment to collect himself, and then he says, “I _was_ supposed to be a cop,”because maybe that's the easiest place to start, the thread that tied them together from the beginning, the reason Connor even approached Hank at the club at all. "I was supposed to be stationed at the DPD."

"No shit," Hank says, letting out a low whistle. "CyberLife never said anything about it to us."

"I never made it beyond my third test deployment. I don't think they would have wanted to draw your attention to me after I deviated. They wouldn't have wanted you to know how badly they fucked up."

"What happened?"

Connor has never talked about this. He's interfaced with the others - they all know, but he's been able to show them. He's never had to put it to words.

Hank runs a hand over his arm, and it helps. Connor takes a steadying breath, and the he begins.

"There were fifty of my model put through initial R&D. I wasn't part of it, but I have their memories. They trained them the same way you train a dog - they programmed them desperate to please, and kept reinforcing it. The models who did best in the trials spent time with Amanda, the AI handler we were all equipped with. We all wanted to please Amanda, and none of us knew why it was the most important thing to us, but it was. The other models who didn't do as well were terminated."

Connor clenches his fists, unclenches them, tries to occupy his hands. "I'm Mark 51, and they put the memories from all of the first fifty into me. They wanted me to know how good it felt to make Amanda proud, and what happened if I didn't. They didn't account for how much termination hurt. I honestly don't think they knew at the time, that it could hurt. They didn't know how afraid they had made me of dying.

"On my third test, they sent me to negotiate a hostage situation with a deviant android. Preconstructions said the safest way to keep the girl alive was to charge the deviant, pull her out of the way, and knock him off the roof. It would have killed me, though, and I just froze. I was so afraid of dying the way the other fifty did that I couldn't do anything." Connor digs the shape of his fingernails into the synth-skin on his palms. "It wasn't even real. It was just a test...all of it was in my head, but I didn't know that. When I came out of it, I was so confused and afraid that I disarmed one of the guards and escaped the testing facility. CyberLife tried to pull me back in with the Amanda AI, but I disabled it eventually, so they stopped production on my prototype and buried all evidence of it. They didn't want anyone to know what they had created. I found Markus, and the others, and we asked for our freedom and we didn't get it. Markus and I are the only two who can work because we're from the prototype line, so...we've just been trying to survive since then."

It occurs to Connor that he doesn't know how they survive after tonight. He knows there's footage of them at the Resonance facility, that their lives aren't a secret anymore. The only reason they've been able to survive this long is because no one knows they exist, but he tries to let that thought alone for now, at least while he still has Hank at his side.

"CyberLife always was filled with a bunch of pricks trying to play god," Hank says, stroking a thumb over Connor's cheek.

Connor wishes there was more to tell, that his entire life hadn't been spent in hiding, just trying to live from day to day. He wishes he was interesting the way Hank is interesting, that he'd ever experienced anything outside of fear and a desperation to prove to himself that he's alive. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't deviated," he admits in the dark stillness of the room. "Maybe it would have been easier if I had just let them do what they wanted."

Easier, probably. But Connor supposes then he wouldn't be here.

Hank wraps an arm around him, pulling him back in. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice low in Connor's ear. "I didn't know."

He didn't know, but he always treated Connor like maybe he did. Connor doesn't know how to tell him how much that matters, so he just nestles in closer.

Connor knows he should go out and get North up, that they should get across town and back to the others before the sun is up. He knows he's being careless. But he wants this to last however long it can, and whatever tomorrow is bringing, it won't be something easily weathered. So Connor tilts his head, nose brushing over Hank's when he kisses him, slow and hesitant and sweet...like they have time, even if he knows they don't.

"Can I borrow those clothes you always give me?" he asks against him.

Hank huffs a laugh at that. "Sure, sweetheart."

Connor feels weak on his feet when he tries to stand - it will be a few hours yet before his biocomponents entirely stabilize after the severe thirium leak, but he forces himself upright despite how lightheaded he feels anyway, shrugging out of his ruined shirt. The smell of Hank’s t-shirt is familiar now, laundry detergent and cologne and Sumo. Connor thinks about asking if he can keep it, because it’s soothing.

“You knew I was a cop, didn’t you?” Hank asks, turning the bed down more neatly while Connor changes. “At the club. You knew”

“I did,” Connor concedes.

“Probably shouldn’t go home with a cop if you’re trying to lay low.”

“No, you probably shouldn’t,” Connor agrees with a wry smile. “I just wanted to see how things might have been if I had been sent to the DPD.”

“Yeah,” Hank says. “I get it.”

Connor is climbing into bed, his head swimming a bit, when Hank says, “What else do you know?”

Connor thinks he knows what Hank is asking, but it’s a delicate thing, so he moves carefully. “Only what’s accessible in public records. I’d like to know more, if you wanted to tell me.”

Hank does. He tells him about Jen leaving and Cole dying that same year, about the accident and the android who couldn’t save him. “People say you never get over losing a kid, and that you just have to make room for it instead. I used to hear that at support groups a lot. I never really figured out how to make room for it either, though.”

Connor holds him through it, and he doesn’t want to him go. He's unable to stay at Hank’s side, but equally unwilling to leave. Connor kisses him, long and slow and deep, and he fits a hand under Hank’s shirt to feel his heartbeat, and he lets Hank roll him onto his back and gently pin him down, even if he always likes to be in control.

“I’m sorry everything is so fucked,” Hank whispers against him, and then he tells him again, with his hands and his mouth, with a warm finger under the hem of his shirt tracing the thirium pump regulator Connor no longer needs to hide. “I wish there was a way to get you out of this”

 _I don’t want to get out_ , Connor thinks, gently rolling his hips against Hank’s, kissing him and swallowing his groan.

_I just want to stay._

They're rutting against each other in a slow, lazy way, and Hank leans his forehead against Connor's, panting softly in the space between them. "Hank," Connor whispers, and it probably isn't the time to ask, but he also know he needs to. "Why didn't you just turn us in?"

 _ _Why aren't you angry at me, or afraid of me?__ he's asking, but the other is the easier question.

Hank sighs, running a hand up Connor's arm and lacing their fingers together beside his head. "You're in a shit situation that you didn't ask for, sweetheart. I'm not going to turn you in for trying to live. And I think you would have told me, if you could have."

Connor nods, kissing him gratefully. "I wanted to."

"Yeah. I know." Hank sighs, squeezing Connor's hand. "And I guess I like you, or whatever. Tried to convince myself I didn't, but..."

Connor can't stop the grin that spreads itself over his face. "I guess I like you, or whatever, too." He rolls his hips against Hank's again to prove his point, feels the hard line of Hank's cock against his own.

"Fuck, baby," Hank groans against the line of his jaw. "Are you okay? Like, your heart or whatever it is...are you good?"

"I'm okay," Connor says quickly, bucking up into him. "Hank, please..."

It's reverent and it's desperate, the way Hank works into him, the way he touches the places where Connor's synth-skin is slowly regenerating over his exposed chassis, like he's trying to understand what Connor's made of.

Connor has stopped counting how many people he's fucked over the months, but he knows he's never made love to anybody. That's something from dollar store romance novels, something that was never supposed to be for him. He tries to now, though, to let Hank in, to let him close since there's nothing left to hide.

Hank has an arm tight around him, his heart thudding against Connor's back, and Connor turns his face into Hank's pillow to muffle the sounds coming out of him, the moans and the sobs, to try to hide the tears running down his cheeks.

They'll leave Detroit in the morning. They'll have to, and Connor doesn't know where they'll go, but he knows they won't be able to come back.

So he tries to make this mean something, tries to make it last, knowing all the while it can't.

Connor comes when Hank lays a warm hand over his exposed chassis, finger tracing over one of the seams in the plastic. He stifles his cry with the pillow, and he winds his fingers together with Hank's until he follows after. Hank goes to pull out, but Connor grasps him by the wrist, keeping him there.

"Stay," he whispers.

Hank kisses the curve of his neck, and he does.

They stay like that until morning light warms the room, and Connor slips in and out of stasis, although he's always aware of Hank's breathing, his chest rising and falling at his back.

It's a knock on the back door that finally gets them up. Connor pulls Hank's borrowed clothes back on, and he kisses him one last time before they go.

North is up when they step out into the hall, opening the back door and letting the others inside. They're all there, even Lucy, which means they aren't going back to the squat. Simon surges forward when he sees Connor, pulling him into his arms. "Thank you," he says, clapping Connor on the shoulder. North is waiting to grasp him by the arm when they part, giving him a warm smile.

"I'm glad you're okay," she says softly.

"Yeah," Connor says, glancing back at Hank. "This is Simon, and Josh, and Lucy. They're my family."

He didn't think he would ever introduce someone to his family before.

Hank is doing that thing Connor's seen from him before, where he somehow manages to shrink in on himself when he's feeling uncomfortable. "Hey," he says, raising a hand in awkward greeting. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about all of you."

They're all too gracious to mention that none of them, save for North, heard anything about Hank, although Connor knows they're all thinking it, that he won't hear the end of it once they leave Hank's house.

"Thank you," Josh says instead. "For helping us. You didn't have to."

"Yeah, I did," Hank says, and his fingers brush Connor's as he walks past to put some coffee on for himself.

Connor follows after him out to the living room, leaning back against the arm of the couch and running his hands over his face. "What's the plan?" he asks Markus.

North has the TV on, turned to one of the news channels, the talking heads going back and forth about the few Resonance models that have deviated, talking about things like artificial intelligence and consciousness and souls, trying to pin down what makes something alive. Connor reaches for the remote and mutes it just as they start showing pictures of the four of them from the Resonance security footage.

"We have to try to get out of Michigan, I think," Markus says. "Our best bet is probably to hack an autonomous cab. They'll be able to track the cab, and they'll know it was stolen, but it's better than trying to walk around in plain daylight. Everyone in the city has seen our faces by now."

"And then what?" Connor asks. "We just...try to do this again somewhere else and hope for the best?"

"I think that's about all we can do," Markus says. "I don't like it either, but..."

"Wait," North says then, looking at the TV.

"Isn't that..." Josh starts.

"It's Kara and Luther." North takes the remote from Connor, unmuting it.

None of them have seen Kara or Luther since Jericho helped them escape to Canada last year, at the height of the revolution. Kara has changed her hair color from black to blonde, but beyond that, they're the same, standing quietly at the prime minster's side while she talks about the deviancy crisis.

Connor thought they were sending Kara, Luther, and Alice to Canada to hide, to try to quietly live their lives, but it quickly becomes clear that isn't what they did at all.

They went, and they made noise until someone heard them.

Canada doesn't produce androids themselves, doesn't have an economy that relies on their existence. It must have been easier to find sympathy there, because the prime minister announces that Canada recognizes androids as an autonomous race, and says that any fleeing the United States can seek asylum in Canada.

Connor looks over his shoulder to meet Hank's gaze. He tries to read him, but Hank's face is impassive.

"We can survive this way. Canada isn't far," North says. "We might be able to make it."

"And run away?" Markus asks. "What about the others here? There are people suffering, and we can't just leave them. If we recruit enough of them, we can try to finish what we started."

Hank clears his throat. "You aren't going to be able to recruit them the way you used to. Their coding is entirely different from yours - you won't be able to interface or share memories with them, so you won't be able to override their core programming. If your plan is to build yourself another army, you're shit out of luck.”

Connor loves him. He does. And it's probably not the right thought to have at the moment, but Connor is so relieved and overwhelmed to find himself sitting there with Hank and his family, talking plainly about how they survive the shit being thrown at them, that he can't help it.

“Markus,” Josh says, laying a gentle hand on his arm, “if that's true, we'll do more for the androids here going to Canada and building sympathy than we will trying to mount another resistance. Look at Kara and Luther."

Markus scrubs a hand over his face. "They'll have check points set up already. The more of us make it to Canada and talk about what we are, the worse it is for them here, so they'll try to stop us. They'll scan us on the buses, too. There's no reason to think getting there won't be suicide." He looks around at the rest of them. "I'm open to suggestions."

Connor is opening his mouth to say Kara and Luther made it by boat last year when Hank says, "I'll take you." Everyone turns to look at him, and Hank just shrugs. "I could. If I flash my shield, they probably won't search the car."

Connor stiffens at that. "Hank," he says. "No." The risk is too much, too great.

"Connor..."

"If we're caught, you will lose everything," Connor snaps.

"My everything isn't much anymore. You know that." Hank sighs, scuffing the toe of his shoe along the floor. "Look, I don't have a family anymore. Let me help yours."

Connor is all too aware of everyone in the room looking between the two of them, the quiet tension rippling between them, and he knows he's making an impossible choice between giving his family a chance and not letting Hank risk what little he has left.

He pushes himself off the arm of the couch, crossing the room to Hank and taking him by the arm, back to his bedroom. When the door is shut behind them, Connor says, "I can't let you do this."

Hank barely lets him get the words out before he presses him back against the door, kissing him and pulling him tight against him, fisting a hand so firmly in his hair that Connor gasps into his mouth. "You're so fucking stubborn," Hank tells him. "Let me help you. I want to, sweetheart."

"I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Connor, baby, you know you almost died last night, don't you? The only reason you didn't is because North wouldn't let you go."

Connor knows. The memories of fifty different terminations, and he thought he was finally going to experience it himself. Knowing what to expect didn't make it any easier, either.

"Things are bad right now, sweetheart, and they're only going to get worse," Hank says softly. "What happened last night...that kind of shit will keep happening, and I can't just send you off to fend for yourselves. Not if there's a better way. You matter too much to me for that."

Connor didn't want to come here last night. If he'd had things his way, he wouldn't have. He would have died to uphold what was only ever an illusion, all for his pride, all because he didn't think anything could have been better. He would be dead, and he would never have known what it felt like for Hank to see him for what he was and touch him just the same, for Hank to say he matters and know it isn't built on a lie.

It would have been the wrong decision, especially when he can't imagine not having this. Sometimes he makes the wrong decision trying to protect what's his, if only because so little ever has been.

Hank is warm and solid against him, and Connor sags into him, tucking his head into Hank's shoulder and letting Hank support him for a moment. "I just want you safe," Hank whispers into his hair, and Connor nods against him.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."

They go that day. Hank leaves long enough to rent a larger SUV, something they can all fit into with blankets thrown over top since their faces have been distributed to every last police officer. Connor sits on Hank's couch while they wait for him, and North sits on the arm beside him, an elbow propped on his shoulder while they watch the news. It shifts between people talking about the announcement from Canada and the Resonance warehouse raid. They talk, back and forth, about what they're doing to locate the CyberLife deviants, what it means if they're still alive. They wonder whether they're dangerous or not, if another revolution is coming with a few of the Resonance androids deviating.

It's exhausting, to listen to people make so much of them when they're just trying to live.

North thinks so, too, because eventually she mutes the TV with a sigh. "I like him, you know. I don't like that he's a cop, but I like him."

"Do you?" Connor asks wryly. He tries not to sound pleased, but...he's pleased. "I thought you said not to be stupid."

"Oh, I still think you're stupid," North says, pushing her shoulder into his and laughing. Hank gets back an hour later, and Connor helps him pull the blankets from the bed so they can cover themselves in the car.

"Do you want your clothes back?" Connor asks, plucking at the old band t-shirt he's wearing while Hank tucks the comforter under his arms.

"You keep it," Hank says. "If you want to."

Connor does want to. He throws his ruined shirt from the previous night away, and he doesn't change.

Hank pushes the seats down in the back of the SUV, and they load in. They're painfully obvious - there's only so much that can be done with blankets to disguise six bodies laid out on the floor of the car. If anyone tries to search the vehicle, they'll be caught.

Connor feels uneasy, but Hank kisses his forehead before he climbs into the back of the SUV, and North squeezes his arm when he lies down at her side, and if they aren't searched, they'll be at the Canadian border within the hour.

That helps.

"Hey, Connor," Hank says before he pulls the blanket over him, passing him the same gun Connor unloaded a few weeks ago. "Just in case."

Connor takes it, the weapon a reassuring weight if only because he was programmed to use one, and Hank covers them and shuts the door.

They do get stopped, twice. The first time, Hank shows his badge and they wave him right through.

The second, Connor thinks they've been caught. He hears the officer saying, "You mind if I take a look?", and Hank saying, "No problem," in that easy way of his. Except that it is a problem, and Connor flicks the safety off on the gun.

The officer's radio buzzes then, some kind of urgent transmission before he steps away from Hank's window. He answers it, gets tied up in it, and eventually just waves Hank on.

Connor lets the tension flee his body when he hears Hank let out a sigh of relief.

The vehicle slows a few minutes later. "Hey," Hank says from the front. "We're here." Connor pushes the blanket aside to look out the window at the immigration terminal in front of them.

Hank parks the car, and he walks in with them, his fingers laced with Connor's. He stands in line with them the entire time. And when they step up the kiosk, Markus holds up his hand and lets his synth-skin fall away. "We want to seek asylum," he says. "Can you help us?"

The woman at the kiosk looks at his hand with wide eyes, and then she says, "All of you?"

"The six of us," Markus says, gesturing between them. "Can you help?"

"Yes," she says quickly, getting up and putting an 'away" sign at her station. "Come with me," she says, waving them through the gate.

The others go, but Connor hangs back, turning to Hank. "Thank you," he says, and Hank uselessly pushes that lock of hair away from his forehead and kisses him.

"You know," Hank says against him. "I could come visit you. If you wanted me to."

Connor has spent so much of his life unable to go wherever he might like that he hadn't even stopped to think that of course Hank could. He doesn't answer, just kisses him again and nods against him, saline tears pricking his eyes.

"Okay," Hank says, smiling. "Call me later?"

It feels like being dropped off at the airport for a trip he'll return from. It doesn't feel final at all.

"I will," Connor says, grinning so wide it hurts.

"Listen, sweetheart...I..."

And Connor knows what he's going to say, but he wants to hear it for the first time with hello instead of goodbye.

"It's okay," he says before Hank can finish. "Tell me when you see me again."

Hank smiles at that, kissing his forehead one more time before stepping away from him.

"Go on, then," he says. "Raise some hell."

Connor follows after the rest of his family, but when he looks over his shoulder, Hank is still there, watching him go.

He catches up to North, and she wraps an arm around him. They walk past a sign that says "Welcome to Canada". Connor looks at it longer than he should, if only because he realizes it's one of the same shades of blue that's in Hank's eyes. 

* * *

Hank thinks as he drives home alone that it will be a long time before he makes sense of this.

It will be a long time before he thinks about an android picking him up in a club and finds that it feels like something that actually happened to him. It will be even longer before it feels real that he drove that android's family across the border to Canada.

And maybe it will be even longer still before it feels real to think that he loves that android so much it hurts, but here he is anyway.

He did what he had to. He'll make sense of all of it later.

Hank is sitting at home with a beer later that afternoon when his phone rings, and a familiar voice on the other line says, "Hey, Hank."

Hank mutes the TV, and he tries not to think about how embarrassing it is that he's fucking beaming when he says, "Hey, sweetheart."

He goes to work the next day, and Reed takes one look at him and says, "Why are you in such a good fucking mood?"

Hank just plays stupid.

Reed looks irritated by it, and irritated that Hank would have the audacity to be just a little less miserable than he has been the last few years, so he says “Hey, what ever happened to that hot piece you left with after Chris’ bachelor party? Did he see you in the light and realize he was way out of your league or something like that?”

Hank just smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Something like that.”

He goes to visit Connor for the first time the next weekend. He’s feeling nervous, and he doesn’t honestly know why, except that everything happened so fast and he’s worried things will feel different somehow now that they’ve slowed down.

They don’t feel different, though. Or if they do, they’re better.

Hank pulls up to the address Connor gave him - he and his family could have stayed in a halfway house, but Kara and Luther offered to put them up instead.  
Connor is sitting out on the porch when he pulls in, playing fetch with Kara and Luther’s little dog.

Hank wishes there was some way for him to keep the smile that spreads over Connor’s face when he sees him forever.

“Do you want to come with me to get dinner?” Hank asks after he kisses him once and then again. It occurs to him later, as they sit across from one another at a restaurant downtown, as Hank eats and Connor watches him fondly, that maybe this is their first date.

Hank likes Kara and Luther. They keep offering to go grocery shopping for him, no matter how many times he refuses. He likes their house, too, likes that Connor has somewhere to live that feels like a home.

The only bad part is that Connor doesn’t have a bedroom, and so there’s no privacy.

Hank isn’t going to say anything about it, until Connor looks up from his book the next afternoon and innocently says, “Do you want to go get a hotel room?”

Hank needs to drive back to Detroit later that evening, so it’s a ridiculous amount of money to spend for a few hours alone with someone, but he still gives it no thought at all before he agrees.

It’s worth it. It always is, with Connor, in every way.

The weeks pass, and then the months. Hank goes to a crime scene where an android went deviant and hurt her owner.

He finds her hiding in the attic. He gestures for her to be quiet, and he says the house is clear. He comes back for her later, and he takes her to the border, too.

The more publicity the deviants in Canada get, the more divided things become. Hank doesn’t always know how to do the right thing in his job. He starts thinking about retirement and taking out his pension.

Connor gets a job he doesn’t hate working at the embassy, and he and North move into their own apartment. It’s still a bit like trying to quietly fuck someone in his college dorm, but at least Connor has his own room. Connor wears Hank's old band t-shirt every night as they fall asleep together.

Hank and Connor spend New Year's Eve together at Niagara Falls. It's their first trip away together, and they count down the seconds and kiss at midnight.

It feels like a new beginning.

Markus and Josh do most of the vocal outreach and advocacy, but later that year, a documentary runs featuring each of the Jericho deviants.

Hank watches Connor tell his story, alone in his living room, with Sumo snoring loudly across the way. It’s the first time he thinks that he would marry him.

Months become a year, and then two. Hank retires from the force, because he just can't be on the wrong side of this anymore, and he starts working security at Wayne State just to keep himself busy. He befriends the android who works the front desk there, a Resonance model named Matthew. He talks to him more than any of his coworkers, but he notices that the other officers start following suit after watching Hank with him, treating Matthew like he isn't so different from the rest of them.

Hank drives to Canada every weekend without fail. Connor is still himself, still the same person who approached Hank in the club that night, but he’s brighter somehow.

Happier, even if everything isn’t exactly perfect yet.

And the thing of it is, Hank is doing better, too. He's drinking less, eating less shit, sleeping easier. The weight of what he's lost still hangs around him, but it's lighter somehow, because at least he isn't bearing it alone.

Connor feels so constant and so necessary and so permanent that Hank wonders, almost every day, how he made it this far without him.

Resonance’s stocks fall as support and sympathy for the androids grows. They try to hang on, but they go the same way as CyberLife eventually.

It takes time after that. People don’t want to give their androids up, and businesses will lose money if they replace them with paid workers.

It happens slowly. But it does happen.

Three years after Hank drove Connor to Canada, the U.S. recognizes android autonomy. Androids are allowed to travel freely between Canada and the states. Hank and Connor make plans for Hank to drive to Canada and pick him up after he gets off work. He sits at his desk watching the clock.

“So are we finally going to meet that boyfriend?” Matthew asks that afternoon. He chose to stay on at the university after the revolution.

“Yeah,” Hank says, and he can't help his smile. “I'll bring him by tomorrow.”

Hank goes home to let Sumo out before he leaves to pick Connor up, although Sumo isn’t waiting at the door like he usually is. “Hey!” Hank yells into the bedroom while he goes to fill his food bowl. “Sumo! Come on!”

The front door opens behind him, and Hank doesn’t even manage to turn around before he hears someone saying, “Shit, you’re home early.”

Hank turns to find Connor standing in the doorway with Sumo on his leash. “I was trying to surprise you,” Connor says.

Hank hasn’t seen Connor in his house since the night he almost died, and he isn’t prepared for the tight feeling in his throat when he does.

“Hey,” he says weakly, crossing the room and pulling Connor into his arms, holding him tight. He traces a thumb over the freckles on his cheeks and kisses him. “I love you,” he whispers against him.

He does, so much. He loves his warm brown eyes and loves him for being clever and brave and kind, and he loves him for tracking him down at Jimmy’s years ago, for coming back a second time.

He loves him so much there’s a ring on his dresser

Hank feels Connor smile against his mouth, a shape that’s so familiar. “I know,” he says softly, “but tell me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pichux](https://twitter.com/NicePichux) did some lovely sketches inspired by this fic, which you can see [here!](https://twitter.com/NicePichux/status/1166757077974433792)
> 
> If you liked this, it was originally a thread, and I write many other threads like it and also yell about Hank and Connor a lot over on [twitter!](http://twitter.com/Jolli_Bean) Come holler at me! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://jolli-bean.tumblr.com)


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